


Captives

by whiskeyandspite



Series: Shared Madness - The Hannibal Drabble Dump [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Biting, M/M, Prison AU, Submission, mentions of abuse, mentions of past rape, pre smut HA I CAN WRITE PRE SMUT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 10:31:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The first time, Hannibal demands, and the first time Will rejects; the second time, Will asks, and the second time Hannibal refuses him. The third time the topic comes up, Will presses himself back against the wall and tilts his head with a moan, and Hannibal bites him hard enough to mark, and both wonder how fast two years will really pass.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>A slightly late happy birthday to the gorgeous and wonderful <a href="http://archionblu.tumblr.com/">Archie</a>. Happy birthday lovie, I hope your flu passes quickly and this fic makes you smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Captives

**Author's Note:**

  * For [archionblu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/archionblu/gifts).



> In truth this started as a [3 sentence prompt](http://sun-to-sirius.tumblr.com/post/63005975868/for-a-fic-prompt-i-would-like-to-request-please-if-it) for [fromchaostocosmos](http://fromchaostocosmos.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. And then my mind ran away with the idea, and I had people backing me up to write the thing and just *flails* here you go, guys, I'm sorry it's so small, I'm sorry there are mistakes, it took me about an hour between the shift at work XD

They had called it self defense, but Will knew better. He is very certain that when he sliced the man's head nearly clean off he had been acting on his own volition and certainly not in defense of himself. It had been premeditated, angry and very much worth the two years he had gotten in jail. Two years. It's almost laughable for the crime he'd committed, but he has enough pull with the police and is such a brilliant liar that on the stand, despite all evidence pointing to the contrary, he was found guilty only of excessive use of force. Not murder. Nothing more.

He makes his way to the cell carrying the change of clothes he's been issued, the bar of soap, a toothbrush. All the things he'll be allowed to call his own for the next two years. It's not much of a change; Will had had a very well-paid job before all this had climaxed in a bloody mess, but he had never lived it up enough to now notice the difference. He had always had just what he needed, not much more. What he will miss are his dogs, all seven of them. He hopes that they, at least, will be well looked after. They did nothing wrong.

It's not clear whether parading new prisoners in front of riled pre-existing ones is a tradition or just happens to be bad timing. It's almost stereotypical of every film Will had ever seen, that as he walks over the echoing metal paths suspended three floors above the mess hall he gets catcalls and jeers, offers of a quick fuck and far lewder things. They don't bother him, he can be deaf to them. He can establish enough of a reputation for himself fast enough - he thinks - to avoid unnecessary contact.

The cell he's directed to already has an occupant. The man is in the top bunk, one knee drawn up and a book curled in his hand, front cover bent in a curve so Will can't read the title. The guard informs the other man of the situation, gets nothing in reply, and leaves Will to settle. He takes the only bunk available, setting his meagre supplies on the pillow for the moment before sitting back, letting his head rest against the cold stone wall behind him, one leg hanging over the edge of the bed, the other drawn up so Will can rest his wrist against it.

He wonders how long two years will feel in this place.

His cellmate says nothing, and Will doesn't venture. Prison was not the sort of place one made friends. One either made allies or enemies, or stayed quiet enough to avoid both. He doubts he'll be that lucky; Will is far too easy to rile up, especially when stupidity is the catalyst. This is similar to college in that few people got in due to their capacity to think.

They go down for dinner at the appropriate time and Will finally gets a good look at his cellmate. The man is taller than he is but not by much, with a harsh, chiselled face and dark eyes. There's a scar on his lip that hasn't healed clean enough to suggest anything but a prison fix up. Despite his demeanour, Will feels no terror being in his presence, no worry about sharing a cell. But he does notice how the man seems to have people scatter from him, in silent respect. Will wonders, but he doesn't linger. It doesn't matter. If he can follow in the slipstream and pass through his sentence that way he will do it without skin off his nose.

The food is tasteless and feels revolting on his tongue. This, he supposes, is punishment enough. He ignores all other calls for his attention as he eats, tensing his shoulders and convincing himself that the prickling on the back of his neck is a sensation he will grow used to. He leaves the table hungry, nervous and tired; more than willing to crawl into his bunk and sleep, determined to find the library the next day and make it his permanent hideaway.

The cells lock, a resounding clash of metal throughout the building, and the lights shut off moments later, throwing the place into a strange semi-twilight. At least it's easy to sleep without light actively piercing his eyes, Will supposes. He curls up, comfortable as he supposes he can be on a thin mattress and thinner pillow, and closes his eyes before the man above him finally speaks.

"Ignoring them will only get you so far."

His voice is rough, accented, certainly not native to the country, but here for long enough for the speech to be fluid, easy to listen to. Will rolls to lie on his back and addresses his reply to the metal bedframe above him.

"It seems to have gotten you far enough."

There's a laugh, a single harsh sound.

"I've earned my peace." the man above him says finally, "Had the advantage of age and lack of appeal on my side. You, however, have both as a disadvantage."

Will frowns, swallowing lightly enough that the other doesn't hear. He knows what to expect in prison, he just hopes his reputation precedes him and he can hold that as a shield. He also knows what the unspoken meaning of his cellmate's quiet words are.

"And I suppose you're about to generously offer protection?"

Another laugh, softer, and another pause.

"Just as you are stupidly about to reject it."

Will snorts quietly and gets nothing but silence in reply. He supposes it could be worse, he supposes the man could easily have forced these terms on him, there are enough sounds in the night to suggest other have had the same offer given by others but not quite as civilly. Will turns a deaf ear to them, concentrates on the metal frame above him.

"Does the confidence come with a name?"

Will chews his lip before taking a breath to reply. "Will Graham."

Another pause, another moment for Will to raise his eyes above his head and see nothing more than the wall behind him.

"Good luck, Will Graham."

-

By the end of the first week, Will is reconsidering his refusal.

It had taken him careful listening around other inmates to even get his cellmate's name. The man - Hannibal Lecter - spoke little, if ever, and didn't answer a question unless there would be a guarantee of conversation after. He wasted no words and gave none. Will realizes quickly that their short exchange the first night had been a very lucrative and very unusual offer. He wonders if it's because he happens to share a cell with him or because there's something about Will that Lecter particularly likes.

He'd be blind to not realize others certainly find something pleasing about him.

Rape in prison is rarely about desire, though. Rape is about power, the ability to assert oneself over another person, over a group of them. Those who are bigger, heavier, more imposing gather themselves a following of those just strong enough to not be the weakest. These packs form, they grow, and anyone not willing to give allegiance one way or another - more crudely, anyone unwilling to bend over and take it - find themselves more often than not with a target painted on their heads for general cruelty and abuse.

Will had refused to bend.

Now he sleeps with his back firmly against the cold wall behind him, waking up at any small sound, shivering and cursing his own stupidity at refusing an offer he now sees as quite the opposite of the hell he suffers daily.

And still pride keeps him silent, makes him suffer three sleepless nights until his hands shake and his vision splits and he finds himself at the mercy of yet another pack, in yet another shower. The pain is just as bright this time as the first, but he refuses to surrender sounds to them, beyond curses and struggling. Once they're done, they promise him more, press his face against the warm tile as the water still falls around them and fill his ears with filthy things.

When Will finally stumbles out, retreating to his cell, he finds Hannibal reading, as always. A new book by the look of it, thicker, the pages more worn than the previous one he'd held; a much loved novel. He hesitates, considers postponing it again, like he had every day this past week, but then the sting, fresh and sore, wakes something in him and he shakes his head.

"It's getting harder to find a place to sit without being bothered." he says.

For a moment Hannibal says nothing, eyes still in his book before he turns his head just slightly and fixes Will with a look. He hadn't been blind to Will's plight, no one had. He was the newest inmate in a den of iniquity, the fact that he had only been targeted by one pack was his blessing, though Hannibal doubts he sees it that way. He has seen Will stumble back, has heard his hitched breathing at night, heard the way he shivered when he refused to move away from the wall, and he had done nothing.

He had not taken Will's refusal as rude, rather he had seen it as a challenge, a man laying his terms. And he was more than willing to wait patiently as Will's walls were slowly worn down by more and more abuse. He could either go one way or another, completely succumb and break, offer himself and fall in line to his abusers - in which case Hannibal wanted nothing to do with him - or he would stand up, fight back, and be a worthy conquest for Hannibal when he was finally ready for him.

But the question still hangs between them, and he raises an eyebrow, watching the way Will's own furrow, seeking compassion or sympathy. Hannibal's expression projects neither.

"Perhaps you should look elsewhere." he tells him. Watches as Will swallows thickly, keeps his wide blue eyes on Hannibal a moment longer before nodding, head tilting in a telling gesture of defiance and anger, before turning away and sliding into his bunk with a hiss of pain.

Hannibal turns a page, settles the book against his knee, and keep reading, all the while keeping his ears attuned to the labored, pained breathing in the bunk below him, and wondering just how long he'll have to wait before he can be the cause of that hitch, the cause of Will Graham's rather fetching limp, the only one to draw a sound from him and make it a sound of pleasure.

He can wait, he supposes, and he will. If Will proves his worth he will certainly be worth the patience.

-

Desperation is quite the motivator. Once Will loses his hope of protection he turns to other means. He's capable, of course, just wont to use his particular set of skills. He'd gotten very lucky with the self defense charge, he doubts fortune will smile as favourably on him again. Though, with careful manipulation he can make it look as though the fight had started around him, and he had merely gotten in the middle.

One visit to the infirmary becomes three, becomes solitary confinement. Will endures in silence, watches as the tormentors so set on taking him apart get simultaneously more eager and justifiably more frightened. Solitary ends and Will returns to his cell. Hannibal greets him with nothing more than the sound of a page turning in his book, Will responds with nothing more than to casually slide into his bunk and doze. 

They develop a strange silent existence, Hannibal and he, where they very rarely speak but seem to understand the other well enough for speech not to be necessary. The share a space, but never seem to crowd the other in it, and as time passes, and Will accumulates more bruises and cuts, and less and less advances in the showers, so Hannibal starts paying him more attention.

It's an unusual courtship, careful, subtle, but one regardless, and Will takes it into stride, amused. Reads the books he finds left on his pillow, devours them before returning them to the bunk above. Plato, Tolstoy, old law textbooks and tatty copies of science fiction. Anything Hannibal finds to read himself, he passes to Will before it disappears from their cell.

Weeks become months, yet Will still sleeps with his back against the wall, cold and jumpy, exhausted and just as determined every morning to prove he isn't.

And it's another day, in another shower, and Will finds himself pinned down by three and threatened by another. His struggles leave foreign blood under his nails and his own between his teeth. But still no sounds, just grunts of pain and breathless struggling. Bruises and bone-deep ache. He returns to the cell tired, angry, and close to defeated. At least his limp this time isn't from someone pushing into him hard enough to bleed; he'd put them off enough with his writhing for the morning. Tomorrow he would not be so lucky.

Hannibal sets his book against his lap when he sees Will, lets his eyes take in the dripping hair he hasn't bothered to dry, the bags under his eyes, the mouth set in a firm line that is juxtaposed with the way his brows are furrowed, as they had been months ago when Will had come to him asking, and Hannibal had sent him on his way.

He'd paid his dues well enough.

He watches Will, catches his eye as the other looks up, sees his eyes harden for just a moment before he blinks and the look is gone, melted into something else, something more vulnerable, before even that disappears, and Will turns his back and presses it against the wall and sighs, not moving to slide into his own bed, not moving to leave the cell. It's as willing an invitation as Hannibal is like to get, and this time he takes it.

Sliding off his bunk he lands silently, close enough to Will for the other to attempt to shift out of the way to accommodate, though he doesn't need to. He doesn't so much pin him to the wall as Will does it for him, pressing back until his shoulders straighten and his spine aligns perfectly to set him just shorter of Hannibal himself. He meets his eyes again, a long look, before carefully, eyes growing hooded from the movement, lifting his chin to present his throat.

It's such a delicious submission, seeing it so willingly given by someone who had been so adamant to remain alive on his own. Makes it all the sweeter as Hannibal leans in and draws his nose gently along the stark muscle there, feeling Will tense but not push him away.

“We start this and you’re mine.” He tells him, voice low, vibrating against Will’s throat as the other swallows.

“I figured.”

It’s a quiet response but not a weak one. Hannibal grins, knowing that this boy won’t snap under pressure, won’t relent against him. it will be a constant give and take, a power play that Hannibal will ultimately always win, but that will be far more enjoyable for the struggle.

He brings one hand down to draw his knuckles up the line of the zipper from navel to collarbone, feeling Will inhale and press himself further back. It’s not disgust, it’s nerves, it’s frustration, it’s residual fear of being touched. He can work with that, set his fingers about teaching Will to respond to him specifically, to push to him needily, seek the comfort and protection offered all on his own. 

Hannibal is patient. Hannibal can wait.

He parts his lips against Will’s neck and very lightly sucks, just a precursor to what’s coming, a warning.

“Moan,” he tells him, before pressing his lips harder against the presented, willing skin. he smiles when he feels Will tremble but make no sound, obstinate and nervous, eyes perhaps over Hannibal’s shoulder and out the door, waiting for anyone to walk past, for anyone to see.

And that’s what he wants, the reason Will finally submitted, if he’s heard, seen as being possessed by someone else, he becomes off limits, available to tease but never touch, never harm again until Hannibal withdraws his hold on him. and he won’t for a very, very long time, if Will proves as resilient and as wonderfully difficult as he has so far.

Hannibal pulls back, enough to meet Will’s eyes, cast down to look at Hannibal as his chin is still raised. For a moment, neither speak, Hannibal watching Will carefully, the other returning his look without blinking. Then he looks away – first – submits again.

And this time when Hannibal closes his teeth against Will’s neck and sucks hard enough to draw a bruise, Will’s voice echoes low and wanton through the cell and out.


End file.
